“Because it was whirling end-over. Normally, a bullet bores a pretty clean hole in plate glass.” “That’s so, too,” agreed the man with some interest. Average Jones handed a cigar to Waldemar and lighted one himself. Puffing at it as he walked to the door, he gazed casually around and finally centered his attention on a telegraph pole standing on the edge of the sidewalk. He even walked out and around the pole. Returning, he remarked to the tobacconist: “Very good cigars, these. Ever advertise ’em?” “Sure.” The man displayed a tin square vaunting the virtues of his “Camarados.” “Outside the shop, I meant. Why wouldn’t one of those signs look good on that telegraph pole?” “It would look good to me,” said the vendor, “but it wouldn’t look good to the telegraph people. They’d have it down.” “Oh, I don’t know. Give me one, lend me a ladder, and I’ll make the experiment.” The tobacconist stared. “All right,” he said. “Go as far as you like.” And he got the required articles for his customer. With silent curiosity Waldemar watched Average Jones place the ladder against the outside of the pole, mount, nail up the sign, drop a plumb-line, improvised from a key and a length of string, to the ground, set a careful knot in the string and return to earth. “What did you find?” asked the editor. “Four holes that you could cover with a silver dollar. Some gunnery, that!” “Then how did the other shot happen to go so far wrong.” “Do you see that steel work over there?” Average Jones pointed across to the north side of the street, just opposite, where a number of buildings had been torn down to permit of the erection of a new one. The frame had risen three stories, and through the open spaces in the gaunt skeleton the rear of the houses facing on the street next northward could be seen. Waldemar indicated that he did see the edifice pointed out by Average Jones. “The bullet came from back of that—perhaps from the next street. They sighted by the telegraph pole. Suppose, now, a man riding in a high coach passes along this avenue between the pole and the gun operator, over yonder to the northward. Every one of the bullets which hit the pole would have gone right through his body. Probably a fixed gun. As for the wide shot, we’ll see.” As he spoke, the Ad-Visor was leading the way across the street. With upturned face he carefully studied the steel joists from end to end. Presently he pointed. Following the line of his finger, Waldemar saw a raw scar on the under side of one of the joists. “There it is,” said Average Jones. “The sights were a trifle off at the first shot, and the bullet ticked the steel and deflected.” “So far, so good,” approved Waldemar. “I can approximate the height of the steel beam from the ground, close enough for a trial formula,” continued Average Jones. “Now, Waldemar, I call your attention to that restaurant on the opposite corner.”